The Highbinders

by Matt Braun

  TERROR ON THE RAILROAD

  The sky was suddenly lighted by an earsplitting blast. The force of the explosion instantly transformed the railway yard into a tangled mass of steel and wood. A towering ball of fire leaped skyward and the concussion shook the earth. A billowing cloud of smoke rose from the devastation, blotting out the moon.

  Tallman lay flattened out on the roof of the boxcar. He stared at the distant flames and concluded that some combination of nitro and dynamite had been used in the bombing. Then he heard laughter and shouts from inside the boxcar, and realized the bombers were congratulating one another on a job well done. He wormed to the other side of the boxcar and found a handhold on the roof. Feet first, he lowered himself over the edge and swung through the open door. He landed on his knees and rolled, drawing the Colt.

  “Don’t move!” he ordered, rising to one knee. “I want you alive!”

  Porter and Cobb were framed in the opposite doorway. A split second elapsed. Then both men pulled their guns…

  “Braun blends historical fact and ingenious

  fiction…a top-drawer Western novelist!”

  —Robert L. Gale, Western Biographer

  ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS TITLES

  BY MATT BRAUN

  Black Fox

  Outlaw Kingdom

  Lords of the Land

  Cimarron Jordan

  Bloody Hand

  Noble Outlaw

  Texas Empire

  The Savage Land

  Rio Hondo

  The Gamblers

  Doc Holliday

  You Know My Name

  The Brannocks

  The Last Stand

  Rio Grande

  Gentleman Rogue

  The Kincaids

  El Paso

  Indian Territory

  Bloodsport

  Shadow Killers

  Buck Colter

  Kinch Riley

  Deathwalk

  Hickok & Cody

  The Wild Ones

  Hangman’s Creek

  Jury of Six

  The Spoilers

  Manhunter

  The Warlords

  Deadwood

  The Judas Tree

  Black Gold

  The Highbinders

  THE

  HIGHBINDERS

  MATT BRAUN

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Previously published as Ash Tallman: The Highbinders by Tom Lord (a pseudonym for Matt Braun)

  THE HIGHBINDERS

  Copyright © 1984 by Avon Books.

  Cover photo courtesy Bettmann/Corbis.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 83-91238

  ISBN: 0-312-99784-1

  EAN: 80312-99784-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  Avon Books edition/March 1984

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition/July 2004

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ONE

  Tallman stepped down from a hansom cab. He paid the driver and stood for a moment at curbside. The morning was bright and sunny, and Washington Street was crowded with passersby. He tipped his hat to an attractive woman and smiled as she peeked at him from beneath her parasol. Then he walked to the arched entranceway of an imposing, four-story brick office building only a few blocks from Chicago’s Loop.

  Tallman entered the lobby and mounted a flight of stairs. On the second floor, he moved briskly along the corridor, halting before a suite of offices. The upper half of the door was frosted glass, emblazoned with gilt scrollwork. The name of the firm stood out in bold relief.

  PINKERTON DETECTIVE AGENCY

  Allan Pinkerton

  President

  With a jaunty smile, Tallman entered and swung the door closed. The reception room was utilitarian in appearance, with one leather sofa and a lone desk. A large inner office was directly opposite the door, and several smaller offices were ranked along an adjoining hallway. The receptionist was a pert blonde, with Kewpie doll features and a passable figure. She looked up from the desk and suddenly sat up straighter. Her hand fluttered to her hair.

  “Good morning, Mr. Tallman.”

  “Good morning, Myrna.” Tallman doffed his fedora gallantly. “You’re looking radiant, as ever.”

  “Oh, Mr. Tallman!” Myrna batted her lashes. “You shouldn’t tease a girl that way!”

  “On the contrary,” Tallman said, grinning. “Whenever I come here, you brighten my entire day.”

  Myrna smiled engagingly. “Perhaps you don’t come here often enough.”

  There was open invitation in her tone. Women were attracted to Ashley Tallman’s animal magnetism and the underlying promise of conquest. A man who fitted his name, he was tall and handsome, with sandy hair and the lithe, muscular build of an athlete. His rugged features were dominated by a determined jaw and steel gray eyes set deep under a wide brow. His character was forceful and charming; he was a ladies’ man whose very presence inspired respect in other men.

  Today, he was attired in a dark gray single-breasted suit, with a pearl gray fedora and a matching four-in-hand tie. The combination was at once striking and conservative, and somehow made his eyes all the more piercing. He gave the girl a slow once over.

  “Careful, Myrna,” he said in a suggestive voice. “You might tempt me too far, and the boss wouldn’t like that. He’s a stickler on the proprieties.”

  Myrna giggled. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him . . .”

  “Who’s teasing now?” Tallman said with a wry smile. “Don’t bother announcing me—I’m expected.”

  Myrna watched with a vaguely deflated look as he crossed the reception room. He hooked his fedora on a halltree, then rapped once and stepped through the door into Pinkerton’s inner sanctum overlooking Washington Street. The office was furnished with leather armchairs and floor-to-ceiling bookcases; behind a massive walnut desk sat Allan Pinkerton. He was stocky and thickset, with a full beard and a shock of salt-and-pepper hair. His face was reserved and stiffly formal.

  “Come in, Ash.” He pulled out a pocket watch. “You’re an hour late.”

  “Why spoil a record?” Tallman seated himself in an armchair.

  “Humph!” Pinkerton regarded him dourly. “I sometimes wonder why I tolerate your insubordination.”

  “Simple,” Tallman said with cheery vigor. “You’re afraid to fire me. I might open my own agency.”

  Pinkerton seemed undisturbed by the thought. Some twenty years ago, shortly after he’d emigrated from Scotland, he had founded the detective agency. Throughout the Civil War he and his operatives had served as spies and espionage agents for the Union Army. These wartime exploits had won the agency a nationwide reputation for undercover work. Following the end of hostilities the firm had expanded into the protection of banks and railroad express cars. There was no federal law enforcement, and local peace officers were hindered by poor communications and vast distances. As a result, the agency served as a watchdog for business and industry. Allan Pinkerton and his agents were looked upon as America’s guardians of law and order.

  Still, Pinkerton had no wish to lose the services of Ash Tallman. In the latter stages of the war, Ta
llman had been recruited for clandestine missions behind Confederate lines. Then, with the coming of peacetime, he’d stayed on as a Pinkerton agent. He was something of an actor—a master of disguise—and was considered the top undercover operative in the business. There was a fine line past which the government and law enforcement, not to mention the private sector, could not take legal action. So Tallman’s assignments were often quasi-legal, and inevitably dangerous in nature.

  Then, too, Tallman was unique among the agency’s operatives. There was nothing in his debonair manner to suggest deadliness and cold nerves. Yet he’d killed five men in gunfights, and in moments of stress he exhibited the steely inner discipline of a blooded veteran. His fellow agents, never easily impressed, were of the opinion he ate nails for breakfast and pissed ice water. And Allan Pinkerton overlooked both his carefree attitude and his excesses with women. Ash Tallman was indispensable simply because he was a survivor. He never balked, no matter how hazardous the assignment.

  “Someday”—Pinkerton paused long enough to lend emphasis to the word—“someday you will go too far and force me to dismiss you.”

  “Not a chance,” Tallman replied genially. “Deep down, you think I’m a prince of a fellow.” He chuckled softly.

  “Spare me your wit.” Pinkerton snorted testily. “I sent for you to discuss a new case. Your assignment starts today and I would appreciate your undivided attention.”

  “I’m all ears,” Tallman remarked with impassive curiosity. “Who’s the client?”

  “The Southern Pacific Railroad.”

  “California?”

  Pinkerton nodded. “The San Joaquin Valley.”

  “Train robbers?”

  “No,” Pinkerton informed him. “Squatters.”

  “Squatters?” Tallman looked genuinely surprised. “I thought we limited ourselves to criminal investigations.”

  “We do.” Pinkerton steepled his hands and tapped his forefingers together. “In this instance, we’ve been retained to expose a criminal conspiracy.”

  “A conspiracy involving squatters?”

  “To be more precise,” Pinkerton noted, “it involves an organization of squatters. They call themselves The Settlers’ League.”

  “Settlers and squatters aren’t exactly the same thing.”

  “Perhaps we should begin at the beginning. Immediately after the war, as you will recall, the government awarded several million acres in land grants to the railroads. The Central Pacific and the Union Pacific linked up to form the transcontinental line. In addition, the Southern Pacific built southward through California. Those are the lands in question.”

  Tallman fixed him with a steady, inquiring gaze. “And, squatters have illegally taken possession of land awarded to the Southern Pacific. Is that the gist of it?”

  “Exactly.” Pinkerton indicated a letter lying on his desktop. “I have here a communiqué from Otis Blackburn, General Superintendent of the line. His concern centers on certain parcels located in the San Joaquin Valley.”

  “Have the squatters filed for title under the Homestead Act?”

  “Not according to Otis Blackburn.”

  “How long have they occupied the land?”

  “I have no idea,” Pinkerton admitted. “Blackburn made no mention of it in his letter. Nor do I find it particularly germane to the case. Squatters are squatters . . . and conspiracy is a criminal offense.”

  “What kind of conspiracy?”

  “A year ago,” Pinkerton explained, “the Southern Pacific brought suit in federal district court. The court upheld the railroad’s position and ordered the squatters to vacate the land. The Settlers League then entered an appeal to the Supreme Court. No decision is expected until the fall term.”

  “Why not wait until the court rules one way or the other?”

  “The Southern Pacific wants them off the land now.”

  Tallman met his stare levelly. “So far, I haven’t heard anything that sounds like a conspiracy.”

  Pinkerton’s face grew somber. “Within the past month, several acts of sabotage have occurred. Tracks were removed in an effort to derail trains. Bombs were planted to destroy a locomotive and nearly a dozen cars of rolling stock. Only last week a bridge was blown up over the King River. In short, the Southern Pacific is under siege.”

  “Any hard evidence to connect the sabotage to the Settlers’ League?”

  “Nothing concrete.” Pinkerton frowned and shook his head. “Apparently the squatters fear an adverse ruling from the Supreme Court. By engaging in guerilla warfare, they clearly hope to force the railroad into an out-of-court settlement. The end result—unless they’re stopped—would be negotiation by terrorism.”

  Tallman deliberated a moment. “How many squatters are there?”

  Pinkerton’s frown deepened. “Numbers are irrelevant. The sabotage campaign has received widespread publicity. People are justifiably frightened, and land sales to new settlers have all but dried up. The overall effect has been to place the Southern Pacific in a ruinous financial position. Which brings us back to the central issue—the League must be stopped!”

  “Does Blackburn’s letter give any specifics on the League itself?”

  “Quite obviously, they are a mob of anarchists. As to specifics, you are to report directly to Blackburn. He will brief you on the details of the case.”

  “When do I leave?”

  “Tomorrow,” Pinkerton advised. “Leland Stanford, Southern Pacific’s president, has dispatched his private car for your trip to San Francisco. I am informed it will arrive here tonight.”

  “Sounds like he’s in a hurry to get me there.”

  “I cannot stress the urgency of your mission too much. Every moment of delay further jeopardizes our client’s position.”

  “How do you want the investigation handled?”

  “Undercover,” Pinkerton ordered. “Your first objective must be to infiltrate the League and gather evidence of a conspiracy.”

  “And then?”

  “Secure criminal indictments against the League’s leaders. With them in jail, the League itself will collapse.”

  Tallman considered briefly, then nodded. “I take it the Southern Pacific will then evict the squatters—before the Supreme Court ruling.”

  “Oh, indeed,” Pinkerton said with a hard grin that had no mirth to it. “After all, possession is nine points of the law.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Tallman said equably. “Anything else, or does that cover it?”

  “One other matter we haven’t yet discussed.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Miss Valentine.” Pinkerton peered at him like a stuffed owl. “Are you planning to use her on this case?”

  “I believe so,” Tallman said with an odd smile. “Vivian’s a natural for our business.”

  “Perhaps,” Pinkerton said, arching one eyebrow. “Tell me how her training has progressed.”

  Tallman delivered a brief report. The lady in question had a checkered past. On a previous assignment, Tallman had infiltrated a confidence ring in New York City. One of the gang’s members was an auburn-haired beauty named Vivian Valentine. A professional bunco artist, she had played the Big Con in several cities along the eastern seaboard. After breaking the case, Tallman convinced her to turn state’s evidence in exchange for immunity. He then persuaded Pinkerton to recruit her into the agency.

  Curiously, he’d encountered little resistance from Pinkerton. However hidebound in some ways, the agency chief was remarkably liberal in his views toward women. Shortly before the Civil War, Pinkerton had hired the first woman detective in the nation’s history. Her name was Kate Warne, and she had served with distinction as a Union spy. Following the war, until her death in 1869, she had performed brilliantly as an undercover operative. So Pinkerton was not averse to recruiting another woman into the agency. His sole condition was that Tallman accept responsibility for her training and her conduct. He wanted assurance that Vivian Valentine would indeed
go straight.

  The probationary period had been set at one month. As Tallman explained it now, Vivian had proved herself an apt pupil. With her background as a bunco artist, she was perfectly suited to work involving subterfuge and guile. He’d further honed her talents and instructed her in the art of disguise. In terms of training, he expressed the opinion that Vivian had learned all there was to be learned in a classroom atmosphere. It was time now to put her to the test, and observe her under fire. In short, he thought she was ready for a field assignment.

  “We’ll make a good team,” he concluded. “She’s quick and foxy, and we think alike. Those are the things that count when you’re working undercover with a partner.”

  “Very well,” Pinkerton agreed. “I trust your judgment, Ash. If you’re satisfied, then I have no objections.”

  “Vivian will be pleased to hear it.”

  “However, I would remind you of one thing. In the field, your life will rest solely in Miss Valentine’s hands. A single error on her part might very well get you killed.”

  Tallman laughed. “Are you worried about my life or the assignment?”

  “Both, of course.” Pinkerton nodded and smiled benignly. “Just complete your assignment and come back in one piece.”

  Tallman uncoiled from the chair and got to his feet. After a warm handclasp, he turned and walked to the door. There he paused and flipped Pinkerton a salute. Then his mouth curled in an urbane smile.

  “Wire the boys in Frisco,” he said, stepping through the doorway. “Tallman and company are on their way.”

  TWO

  The sun went down over the mountains in a great splash of orange and gold. Tallman was seated in an overstuffed armchair, staring out the train window. His expression was abstracted, and a black panatela cigar was wedged in the corner of his mouth. His eyes were fixed upon the distance.

  The train chugged slowly toward the summit of the High Sierras. Behind lay the winding canyon of Truckee River, and ahead the mountaintops were still splotched with crusty patches of snow. The altitude topped 7,000 feet, and far below was a spectacular view of Donner Lake surrounded by wooded mountain slopes. Across the summit, the fifty mile descent from the Sierras was almost straight down. Tomorrow morning, after highballing around switchbacks and thundering over sheer gorges spanned by bridges, the train would arrive in Sacramento. From there, it was a pleasant one-day journey to San Francisco.